


I Can Resist Everything Except Temptation

by MissMoochy



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel
Genre: Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Hero Worship, M/M, POV Matt Murdock, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25416502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: Matt is aware of Foggy's hatred for the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. He talks about it all the time, not knowing that the man he loathes is actually his best friend. But one night, after a chance encounter in an alleyway, Matt discovers that Foggy's feelings for the Devil are more complex than Foggy pretends.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

He’d recognise that voice anywhere. Even though it rings out in the air, shrill and sharp, distorted by panic, he recognises it as well as his own voice. The devil is roaring in his chest, baying for blood, screaming at him to hunt and find evil, to beat it into a wet pulp, but something breaks through. Some shred of humanity, something that belongs to Matt and not the devil. 

Foggy.

He changes direction and runs across the rooftops, letting the voice and the heartbeat direct his feet, oh, Foggy’s heartbeat is so fast, and then he is there.

Through the fire, he can feel three bodies. Two unfamiliar men and Foggy. Foggy has his hands up, placatingly, through the panic are the strained threads of logic. He is trying to use his lawyer voice. The voice that gets through to people. That voice is not going to get through to these men. Matt knows it and the devil does too.

The fight doesn't last long. Matt's fists tear through the air, working on muscle memory, and he's rewarded with the wet slap of meat on meat, bodies topple and fall, as Foggy's heart twitters nervously. Foggy doesn't run, he stands there and watches but when Matt walks away, leaving two unconscious bodies and one conscious one, Foggy follows him. A clumsy skitter that is strangely endearing.

* * *

“Oh my God, you’re the devil, aren’t you? The devil of Hell's Kitchen?” Foggy’s voice is hushed, his heart hammering against his chest. Matt feels a shred of annoyance. He can’t recall the last time he heard Foggy’s heart race like that. At their time in college, Foggy’s heart was pleasingly rapid, a fluttery thing every time he caught sight of Matt’s face. It would twitter in his ribs like a bird in a cage whenever Matt would smile at him or loop his arm through Foggy’s. But since Marci and the other girls Foggy has managed to charm, his heartbeat has stayed steady and slow around Matt. Although now that he thinks about it, in recent years, Foggy hasn’t shown any interest in dating anybody, female or male. Even when they spent the night drinking in Josie’s and some hot chick would walk by, Foggy’s heartbeat remained slow and consistent.

But now, it is galloping madly and Matt smirks to himself. He’s missed that sound. It is a shame it is only the devil who can jolt that heart into jitters, but at least, it is caused by Matt to some degree. He draws closer, hoping to ramp up that heartbeat even more. The danger has passed. They are both quite safe.

“You shouldn’t walk alone at night. Who knows who you might bump into?” He says it quite deliberately, with the intention of provoking his friend. He waits expectantly for Foggy to puff up his chest like a bird, bristling with indignation and let loose with a stirring speech about reclaiming the streets from the criminal network. It would be beautiful and ultimately, unnecessary.

But instead, Foggy makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, something akin to a quiet agreement and speaks. “Well, it’s lucky I bumped into you, isn’t it?”

“I won’t always be here.”

“Are you going somewhere? Back down to Hell?”

“I can’t be everywhere at once. You need to take care of yourself.” It is genuine anger lacing his words. He cannot believe that Foggy would be so moronic to walk around unescorted, late at night. He is unarmed and has zero knowledge of self-defence. What does he think is going to happen if he gets jumped? That his words could keep an attacker at bay?

“Can’t _you_ take care of me?”

Matt blinks, beneath his mask. He’s never heard Foggy’s voice take on that tone before. It is something low and intimate. Something entitled, a bit possessive. He’s certainly never used that tone on Matt and wouldn’t have dared to use it on Marci.

“That’s not my job.”

“But you provide a public service. I’m the public. Service me.”

Matt gasps and tries to pull it back, to take the sound back into his mouth but it is already out. Foggy is joking...isn’t he? He can’t smell any alcohol on his breath, just the regular scents of laundry detergent, deodorant, shampoo. Perhaps Foggy has taken a hit from one of those goons and Matt has been too distracted to --

“Okay, I’m sorry. That was out of line. I just think you’re so hot, I blurted out what I was thinking without checking it in my head first and--”

That sounds more like Foggy. Matt slowly shakes his head, trying to disperse the memory of those words: _Service me._

“It’s okay. You’ve had a big shock tonight.”

“Right. Thanks, for, uh, giving me an out. Oh, and saving my life, too. You’re a mutant, right?”

He has never liked that word but he has powers other people don’t, so…

Matt nods.

“I thought so. When you fight, you just have this awareness, you know? You’re so fast and you seem to know things. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“My powers don’t upset you? Revolt you?”

Foggy shakes his head vigorously and his hair makes a soft swooshing sound, disturbing the air. “No, not at all, why would it? I think it’s awesome. I wasn't sure about you at first, I thought you were doing more harm than good. And I still would feel better if you’d go about this whole thing legally. You’d make an incredible police officer. But I get it. I know why you do it and I respect it. And as for _revolt,_ uh...not at all. If anything, your powers-” he stops and Matt can hear his jaws snap shut, his teeth clicking together as he bites back his words. There is more to what he is saying, it is there in his treacherous heartbeat, and in the wet squelch of his teeth biting his tongue.

Matt hates to use any kind of intimidation on Foggy but he moves closer until his chest is brushing Foggy’s and the man can feel the strength of Matt’s body. “If you’re hiding something from me, some secret, I’d recommend you spit it out. I have a way of finding things out.”

“Uh, wh-- I just...it’s nothing bad,” Foggy stammers. Matt doesn’t give him any room and when Foggy speaks, it's in a tumbling rush. “I’m a chaser, okay, I’m a mutantphilliac, and I’m sorry, I know it’s gross of me, but I can’t help myself, I’ve seen your photos on the news and I knew you were special and part of me always hoped I’d meet you, but not like this and I’m...sorry.”

There is one unfamiliar word in there and Matt repeats it. “Mutantphilliac?”

Heat flares around Foggy’s face. Blushing. “This is so, ugh, this makes me sound like a creep. Mutantphilliacs are people who have an, um, interest in people who have powers. There are forums and stuff online. It’s also a big category in, er, in porn.”

Matt is going to have to take his word at that. “When you say an _interest?_ ”

Foggy’s hands fly up and cover his face so that he is muttering through his fingers. His face still blares out heat, and his voice is only slightly muffled by his hands. “A sexual interest.”

Right. Okay. His brain is fuzzy like he’s just received a rabbit punch in the ring. There are thoughts following a janky circuit in his brain, like a rickety children’s train set. _Foggy likes mutants. The Devil is a mutant. Foggy likes the Devil. Foggy doesn’t like Matt because he doesn’t know Matt is a mutant._

Foggy doesn’t like Matt. Foggy likes the Devil. Matt _is_ the Devil.

Matt is moving before his brain has time to catch up, his gloved fist is opening up like a flower, fingers extending and all he could do is wait to find out what he is doing. His hand snaps out and snags a handful of Foggy’s hair.

* * *

Foggy makes a breathless sound, something wispy, lacking form. But he doesn’t move away. Matt clenches his fist, hearing the swishing whisper of hair curling around his fingers.

He isn’t moving his own hand. That isn’t his hand. A hand that is curled around the back of Foggy’s skull, pushing him forward so Foggy is forced to take a couple of stumbling steps into Matt’s path. He staggers, falls against him, but Matt’s body is hard where Foggy’s is soft and he absorbs the impact easily. _Foggy_. Solid and warm. Smoothed out, no frayed wires or rough edges. He is soft as a freshly-made bed and Matt wishes to fall into him.

Foggy comes to him easily, lets himself be guided by the glove, bringing him closer to Matt. Matt lowers his mouth to Foggy’s own lips just to hear his heart race. There it is, it picked up in pace, trilling along nicely like birdsong in the morning. This is _his._ That heartbeat belongs to _Matt,_ it has been his since they first met. And he won’t let it beat for anybody else.

Foggy’s lips are as soft as the rest of him. Soft and vulnerable, beneath Matt’s own mouth, full of life and fluid. He could bite it like an orange slice, he actually thinks that if anybody would have sweet blood, it would be Foggy Nelson. Foggy accommodates him, opens up his mouth so eagerly, so Matt’s tongue can slither inside. But is it Matt’s tongue or the Devil? Foggy moans, muffled by Matt’s lips, his hands clawing at Matt’s kevlar vest, trying to find something to cling to. But is Foggy clinging to Matt or the Devil? Would Foggy let _Matt_ kiss him like this? Let _Matt_ push him against this filthy, wet wall, while clumps of grime stick to Foggy’s silken hair? He doesn’t think he would. And that angers him, makes the devil inside jump up and scent the air, smelling an opportunity for cruelty. Makes him grab Foggy roughly, squeeze his waist a touch too much, dig the bones of his fingers into soft flesh just to feel Foggy tremble on his lips.

“Tell me,” Foggy begs, words spilling from his lips like kisses. “Tell me about your powers.”

So he does.

He tells Foggy, his hands still locked in his hair, of the smell of cold air in the morning. Earthy, with a fresh, raw wetness like placenta meat.

He describes the smoky clouds of pollution, of how the acrid fumes prod his eyelids and crawl down his throat and nose. How it lingers, sinks into the fibres of his clothes, blends with the oil in his hair until there is always a trace of it somewhere. And he is the only one who is aware of this.

He tells Foggy of the sounds of the city. The lazy buzzing of neon lights, the hurried scamper of little paws, rats running through pipes and under cars. And humans. The mass of hot bodies, eating and fucking and sleeping and talking, constantly moving. The hubbub of life that surrounds Matt like a forcefield. Walls that sometimes feel comforting, other times stifling.

And through it, Foggy listens ardently, nodding, marvelling at Matt’s powers, at the subtle nuances of the world that only Matt can detect. And he whispers _Yes,_ and he tells Matt that he’s _incredible_ and he honestly believes that, doesn’t he? That adoring voice is full of worship for Matt. Foggy’s voice blocks out the patter of rat-feet and the click of high heels and the honking of traffic, his voice is a holy choir that encircles Matt and it feels like the sun on his skin.

He’s not sure who reaches for who, through the haze, but recalls holding onto Foggy as hard as he can, which is very hard, and Foggy lets him and wants him and wants any sensation, be it pleasurable or painful. He wants _Matt,_ he wants _the Devil,_ it’s all the same because they’re both hugging him, pressing kisses into sheets of hair, touching bare flesh that sprouts goosebumps in the cold night. And Matt is on fire, hot enough to warm Foggy and push the goosebumps back into their pores, but Foggy’s arms are cold but he’s hot elsewhere. Burning hot when Matt pushes into him, ventures deeper than he would have dared, than he ever imagined. So deep and musky inside, pure biology, no pretence at all, hot and wet, and it’s Foggy, his raw scent, and Matt wants to memorise that scent the way he’s memorised Foggy’s heartbeat, so it’ll be with him always. And he leaves something with Foggy too, inside him, spills out his prayers in liquid verse, coats Foggy’s insides with pure magma, and the relief is immediate. 

The bite in the air clears Matt’s mind and he feels foolish, standing here dressed as history’s original villain. Standing here with Foggy. And Foggy shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t do these sorts of things with men he doesn’t know. It’s dangerous. He doesn’t like the thought of Foggy doing this with other men, no man could be worthy of Foggy Nelson. But he doesn’t tell him this. Instead, he steps away, putting some space between them and jumps up, finding the reassuring metal railing of a fire escape and flees, leaving his friend to stand there and catch his breath. Matt hates himself for leaving. But he’d hate himself more if he stayed. **  
**


	2. Chapter 2

When Matt wakes up the next morning, the first thing he’s aware of is a pigeon cooing emanating from the roof above him. He likes the soft sounds that they make, the rustle of feathers and the clack of their tiny, hard toes.

He lurches out of bed, rolling off sleep like rainwater, and feels his head emerging from the fog. He crashed hard last night, barely managing to break his body out of his Daredevil suit before collapsing on the bed. The suit lies in pieces on the floor, he can smell the leather. He didn’t have any major injuries so there was no need to visit Claire. And besides, he didn’t want to. He’d heard once about something that new mothers experience when they have so much physical interaction with their child that they feel ‘touched out’ and are unable to enjoy intimacy with their husband. After last night with Foggy, he wouldn’t have been able to bear Claire’s hands on him. What if her scent had overwritten Foggy’s? 

He can still smell Foggy on him. The salt of his semen, there must be smears of it on his suit. He’ll need to clean it before he can wear it again. He drops to his knees and picks up pieces of the suit. _Foggy._ Smells linger on the leather and kevlar, saliva, semen. The gloves smell stronger, Matt had pushed his fingers inside him. He never wants to lose that smell. He wishes his body held traces of Foggy’s scent, but most of his skin was covered during their night together.

When he runs a finger over his lips, the fragile tissue feels swollen and tender. This was a part of his body that touched Foggy directly. Their kissing was messy, crazed. Foggy had been so desperate to touch him. He’d let Matt put his mark on him.

It feels like a dream.

* * *

It is with great reluctance that Matt showers. He stands under the roaring spray and rubs his hands roughly over his body, his pecs, his abs, down to his legs. The water drips down his back like sweat and circles the drain under his feet. He imagines that Foggy’s scent is evaporating in the heat or swirling down the drain. He wishes he could bottle it like perfume.

When he arrives to work, leather replaced by a crisp suit and tie, he can hear Foggy and Karen chatting as he’s approaching the door. Karen and Foggy have neutral voices, he thinks to himself. He’s always appreciated that about them. Especially Karen. Some women have high, squeaky voices and it hits his ear like a knife. Not Karen, though. Hers is like a cold balm, something bland and inoffensive. Foggy’s voice is a little deeper, usually warm with humour and excitement. He sounds excited today, but there is an ugly twist to his words. It wouldn’t take a detective to deduce who he was talking about.

“Unbelievable. Sticking his nose where it isn’t wanted!”

“He’s a good man!”

"He's a public menace, Karen! Honestly...”

“I don’t think you—”

“I hope you’re not talking about me,” Matt quips and aims a charming grin into the dark. Karen’s heart is annoyingly loud as she catches sight of him and sees his smile. And Foggy is...Foggy. His heartbeat is elevated but it’s been like that before Matt walked in. His heartbeat is so rapid because he’s been arguing. Lawyers _do_ love to argue.

“Daredevil saved Foggy! Last night!” Karen chirps like an over-eager hall monitor, narking on the ‘bad’ kid. Foggy makes some little utterance, a mix between tutting and a sigh and Matt can feel that he’s shaking his head.

“He didn’t _save_ me. I had it handled.”

“Sure you did,” Karen says, unconvinced. 

Matt feels his way to a chair. 

“So, tell me. What happened last night?”

* * *

He sits there as Karen babbles on. He would prefer to hear it from Foggy. But Karen is singing the Devil’s praises, describing him in terms more befitting of a graphic novel. The Daredevil from her fantasies is some swashbuckling hero, flitting through the night and picking off bodies, flawlessly efficient and as unstoppable as a force of nature.

Matt can hear Foggy grinding his teeth. The squeak of bones rubbing together makes Matt smile to himself. Foggy hates this. Absolutely _loathes_ it. He never wanted to be a damsel in distress for the Devil but it’s happened and his friends know it.

When Karen is finished, Matt turns to Foggy and says: “What was it like? What was _he_ like?”

“Okay, well, first of all, the muggers were nothing. Two, scared young men,” _Then why did you sound so panicked when you were trying to reason with them?_ “I was talking them down. I was getting through to them, I could see it. They didn’t want to have to kill a guy. There are bad guys and there are _bad_ guys. These guys were only doing it because they had no money. _Bad_ guys do it because they like it.”

“Which type does Daredevil focus on?” Matt asks him.

“Daredevil _is_ a _bad_ guy. And he came in there, beating these men up. God knows what injuries they have. He just left them there! They could have bled out! I wanted to check up on them, but I walked straight home. I didn’t want to be outside with that masked lunatic running around.”

“You didn’t tell me he left them there? I thought he normally calls the cops or something?” Karen asks and she’s right. It doesn’t fit the Devil’s MO and she knows this. “Did he just walk away from you?”

 _Oh, this is interesting._ Foggy’s heart is fast and loud in his ribs, he’s nervous. He doesn’t want to lie to Karen but he can’t tell her that after Foggy was rescued, he let the Devil push him up against a wall and fuck him like a whore. 

“He, um, he left the alley first and I followed. We spoke for a few minutes and then he jumped up onto something and ran. Just ran.”

“What did you talk about?” Matt murmured. There it was, that stutter of the heart. Sweat was beading on the back of Foggy’s neck, he could smell the salt.

“Crime. I told him I don’t approve of what he does. That he should quit and leave law enforcement to the actual police department. I told him I didn’t need his help and he listened and he left.” _You little liar._ Foggy’s heart is dinging like a joy buzzer but his voice is surprisingly steady. Maybe he believes it, a little. Or perhaps he’s merely confident that there’s no way his statement could be proved to be false. No witnesses.

“You should have thanked him,” Karen says quietly. Matt almost wants to hug her. She believes in the Devil. She believes that he is a good force, a silent angel overlooking the city. She knows nothing. If she could see inside Matt’s brain, she’d run as fast as her clicky little heels could take her. Or maybe she’d embrace the darkness. She’s a odd girl.

“Why would I thank that maniac?” Foggy squawks. “He’s deranged. What sort of person dresses up as the devil and takes the law into their own hands like that? He must be insane. Or hideously egocentric. Forget the devil, that’s the biggest God complex I’ve ever seen.”

“Foggy…”

“No, Karen. He’s a — a blight on the city. He needs to be locked up. He’s probably a loser in real life, no job, no friends, nothing worthwhile. I bet everybody in his real life hates him and that’s why he feels the need to dress up like a—”

“Enough!” but it’s Karen who says that, not Matt. Her voice is brittle as a twig but when she speaks, it’s quite calmly. “I know you’re feeling emasculated because two men threatened you last night—”

“I’m not emasculated—”

“—but you need to calm down. We have clients arriving later and you look as if you’re about to burst a blood vessel. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee and I’ll bring you those documents you need?”

She’s amazing. She’s just what Matt and Foggy need. Foggy senses it too, because he sighs and Matt knows the next words to leave his mouth will be an apology.“I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine, Foggy. You’ve been through a lot. We get it. And we’re your friends.”

“Yeah, you are,” And Foggy is standing, pushing his chair back and his suit jacket rustles as he extends his arms. Karen’s hair gracefully slithers down her back as she steps into the hug. Matt sits there, burning with the desire to join that hug, to touch his two friends, but he’s blind and he has to wait.

“Matt, we’re hugging,” Foggy says to him and Matt smiles, stands up and walks into the source of heat. The hug is warm but not as hot as Foggy was last night. Matt places his hands on each of his friends, one hand on the back of Karen’s neck so her soft hair slides under his palm and his other hand on Foggy’s back. So close, he can smell them both. Karen is softly perfumed, something flowery and sweet and Foggy is Foggy. The smell of ink and coffee, and dull laundry detergent. He smells like home. He doesn’t smell of Matt.

Matt muddles his way out of the hug and Karen, bless her, sweet Karen, she guides him to a chair. He lets her. It’s unnecessary but she’s a prop. His hands find the handles of the chair and he grips them until his palms burn. He tries to focus on Foggy’s body, tighten the limits of his world so the bubble is around Matt and Foggy, blocking out everybody else. It works. He can hear the rustle of Foggy’s hair, smell the coffee on his breath, already overpowering the mint of his toothpaste. He sharpens his senses, tries to drink in more scent. He can’t smell himself on him at all. Foggy must have been busy this morning. He showered and he erased every trace of Matt on his skin. Did he wash Matt’s cum out of him? Did he stick his fingers inside and _claw_ it out? _Well, no matter,_ Matt thinks as Karen presses a cup of coffee into his hands. _I’ll just put more inside him._

* * *

Foggy is heading home, paying more attention to his phone than where he was going. Candace has been blowing up his phone for the past hour, she’s finally dumped that loser and needs commiseration. Foggy saw the breakup coming from a mile away but she apparently hadn’t. She’s broken up with Ted because she caught him with another woman. Foggy’s not surprised, he’d had a bad feeling about the guy since he first met him. But now, Foggy is having to console her with texts, receiving spamming teary-eyed emojis in return. 

He lets his feet find the way home and is passing the mouth of an alley when something grabs at him. His phone flies from his hand as he struggles, but the force pulls him deeper into the darkness and away from the street.

“Help, ohmygodhelpmphf—” a gloved hand clamps down on his mouth, effectively silencing him. He can feel the wall behind his back and a hard hand on his face and he squints in the darkness to see a mask. A mask that looks very familiar. It is often glaring out from a photograph on the front page of the newspaper. Or more intimately, it made a repeat appearance in Foggy’s dreams.

“Mmmh,” Foggy tries for speech again, struggling keep breathing through his nose. 

“We must stop meeting like this,” The Devil says. He lets his hand fall from Foggy’s mouth to clasp his collar. 

“What are you doing?” Foggy gasps. “What do you want with me?”

“It’s not about what _I_ want, is it? It’s what you want.”

The other night feels like a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. Foggy cannot believe he’d acted in such a way. He hadn’t even had the excuse of drunkenness to fall back on. He’d debased himself, willingly let the Devil touch him and kiss him, use him for his own pleasure.

“I don’t want anything from you.” Foggy grinds out with more bravado than he feels. His eyes are adjusting to the gloom and he can pick out minute details. The pale skin like a spectre. The dark stubble shadowing a strong jaw. The way his lips quirk up at Foggy’s retort. 

“You wanted so much. The other night. You were fortunate to encounter somebody so generous.”

“That was a mistake. I’m not...I don’t know what I was thinking, I think the — the fight confused me, I got carried away. It won’t happen again.”

“It won’t? How can you be so sure?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You might get carried away again.”

“I won’t,”

“You might get excited,” The Devil whispers as if they are sharing a secret. “Wouldn’t be your fault.”

“It’s not happening.”

The Devil cocked his head to the side. “But you said you were a mutantphiliac. You’re helpless to your desires.”

“It doesn’t work that way—”

“And if a big, scary mutant grabbed you and threw you in a dark alley, you couldn’t be expected to fight him off, could you?”

Time seems to drag to a halt as Foggy stares up at him. The blank red eyes offer no answer. Even the Devil’s plush pink lips are thinned in a firm line. No help there. Is he…he’s offering a way out, isn’t he? It’s like some old-timey movie where it’s not acceptable for a woman to welcome a man’s advances, so she has to pretend she’s rejecting the overtures. Foggy can’t accept this. He can’t willingly admit that Daredevil's body is irresistible, that it calls to him, sends out threads of desire that pull at every muscle. He spent most of the morning convincing Karen and Matt that this vigilante is not to be trusted. But the Devil is right. If he wanted Foggy, he could take him. There would be no fight.

For all his harsh words, Daredevil doesn’t move until Foggy does. He stands there, waiting, perfectly still until Foggy moves just a bit closer. The Devil’s breath is heavier now, and when Foggy glances down, he can see two gloved hands clenching into fists. The fingers flex, aching to touch him. He feels a smug curl of satisfaction, the Devil is dying to touch him, is having to dig his fingers into his palms just to repress the urge. Foggy could walk away and leave him and the Devil would let him. It would hurt but he would let him.

So why doesn’t Foggy walk away?

He’s weak. Tied to his basic desires, a slave to them. He can’t be held accountable for his actions, can he?

He needs this. He needs something that’s just for him. He realises this now. Between work and Karen and Matt, there’s nothing that is ever just Foggy’s. Karen. There had a brief, crazy fantasy that she would fall for him, that this beautiful woman would fall into his life and his arms. But she, like every other woman, had met Matt and fallen hard. As far as Foggy knew, nothing had developed between them. But it was only a matter of time. Matt always got the girl. But he wouldn’t get the Devil because the Devil wanted _Foggy._ It was strangely alluring, being somebody’s first choice.

“You want me, don’t you?” Foggy asks him, barely a mutter, nearly inaudible but he knows he was heard.

The Devil’s mouth falls open, just enough to expose perfect, white teeth. “Of course I want you,” he tells him. So earnestly.

“Just me? Nobody else?” His hand finds something to cling to, needing some reassurance that this is all real. It would be very Foggy Nelson for him to have hit his head and had some wild, concussion-induced delusion that he and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen were romantically entangled. His fingers slide down kevlar and it feels solid under his palms.

And it’s then that Daredevil reaches for him, eagerly with both hands, grabbing him and kissing him and Foggy sinks into the embrace like a warm bath, basks in the glow of attention. He’s more than one half of _Nelson & Murdock,_ he’s more than Matt’s friend. He’s something alive in the night, a creature running solely on instinct. A creature that needs to mate.

The Devil hooks a hand under each of Foggy’s thighs and heaves him up, with the wall against him and onto the vigilante’s waist and honestly, that is what breaks Foggy.

That raw strength, the display of power. Mutants are superior, aren’t they? Social outcasts but they are something better than a man like Foggy can ever hope to be. He feels pinned down in the Devil’s shadow and he likes it. 

“I’ll be so good for you, Foggy,” he whispers, his hot breath roaring in Foggy’s ear. Foggy spares a brief second to wonder if he’d told him his name but then decides that it doesn’t matter.

“You’re strong,” Foggy tells him and he’s not referring to the way the Devil holds him, without his legs straining from the weight. He means the strength to fight, to protect the innocent. God, when did he start to sympathise with this man?

“Strong enough to keep you safe,” the Devil responds and he has apparently convinced himself because there’s no tremor in his voice.

That declaration finds its way past the pores and inside Foggy, to curl like a cat around something warm, seeking comfort. It’s such a bold statement that he uttered, naked and vulnerable but so confident. Daredevil believes he can protect Foggy, from any threat. He considers it his duty. And Foggy doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve such protection but he wants more of it, so he grabs at him, sticking quick kisses wherever he can reach, the stubbled jaw, the hard shoulders, his lips.

The Devil is leaning into the kiss, pressing Foggy tightly into the wall that he was crushed between brick and kevlar, not sure which one was crushing him more. But then the Devil raises his head, tearing his lips off Foggy’s and curses.

“What is it? What can you hear?”

“I have to go. Somebody needs help,” He steps back, letting Foggy stand under his own weight again. His legs buckle, stiff from spending so long wrapped around the Devil’s waist. Foggy lets his hands grip the wall behind him and damp brick bites at his palms.

“It’s okay, I get it. Just go.” The disappointment in his voice is easily detectable, even to those without super-hearing.

“I didn’t want to—I was supposed to feel you—to get in deeper,” The Devil says and it makes no sense to Foggy but he nods, anyway.

The vigilante jogs out of the alleyway, an inky streak dashing away into the night. Foggy stands there, listening to the frantic footsteps die away, and he thinks that his heartbeat must match them because it thumps so heavily in his chest. Perhaps the Devil can hear it, even as he flees.


End file.
